Second Place
by broken halleluiah
Summary: "Finnick. Odair. In. The. Capitol. On. Valentine's Day. It's not a coincidence. It's destiny. It's love." Because sometimes love is a battlefield and some people will do whatever it takes to emerge victorious.


**For angels entwined for the Caesar's Palace exchange. Thank you for the easy but _marvelous_ prompts, and please excuse my blatant disregard of the word limitations. If it was an actual contest you should feel free to disqualify me. :3**

**A/N: The names you don't recognize are OC's, but all you need to know is that they're dead. Except Angelica. Y'know.**

* * *

_You know what life's greatest delusion is?_

_The biggest lie they will ever tell you is that life- is- fair._

That's what her father told her the day he returned home to their flat from District Four and flung his suitcase to the floor with a slam, tore off his suit coat and his wig. He'd just received his letter of _relocation_.

"Cows and sheep!" he exclaimed, face flushed with rage and quite close to tears, as his little daughter watched in bewilderment. "That's the only success that district has ever provided. Cows and sheep…"

Angelica was twelve when her father was demoted to the position of escort for the lowly District Ten. Gone were the days of his prestige and power in the Capitol. Gone were the visits to the Circle with him on Parade days, shaking hands with the fiery tributes and knowing it was possible that she could return and shake their hands again later, as Victors. Some other little escort's daughter shook Finnick Odair's strong hand when he was reaped, and he probably kissed her when he won.

Maybe this was the reason Angelica grew up with a unique appreciation for the Hunger Games. She didn't _rave_ about them the way her peers did- after all, they stole her father year after year, betrayed him with reassignment to a lower district, made him angry and bitter and distracted even when he finally returned home again- but they were a mirror to reality. Life was just like the Games, you see- you came in first or you came in last. There was no second place.

The world, even in the Capitol, wasn't free and equal and full of opportunity for everyone. It was competitive and cutthroat and prone to chewing people up and spitting them out again. If you wanted life to be fair to you, you had to _force_ it to be fair.

Fight, scream, cheat, trample to the top-

It was a plan (_delusion_).

* * *

She worked hard- she stood her ground- she fought- she made her own way, unlike those spoiled, flouncing show-offs she grew up with. She made brilliant grades, graduated at the top of her class. She exploited (_used)_ her resources, cut necks (_to save her own_), turned on the charm (_it never failed_).

And then the one thing came that she couldn't control.

_Don't you see, I have to go, Angelica. This is the biggest opportunity of my life. Escort for District Two- No, I don't see how we can go long-distance. I'm sorry._

She had screamed at him- _Don't you know they'll spit you out in a year or two_- like her father- _it's not like you'll always be the best one for the job- Don't go-_

He went.

That had been back at Christmastime, and he had left her with a box of chocolates and a black hole so big she couldn't kick or scream or claw her way out of it.

Life wasn't _fair_.

Two months have passed in a thick, swirling mist, and she hasn't seen a bright spot to pull her up through the clouds. Suddenly every carefully-managed detail is slipping through her fingers, and what does it matter anymore? She's come in second (_last_) place, not to another woman but to a hot-shot _job description._

Angelica finds herself alone on a Friday night, holed up in her apartment with those pills the doctor gave her, and that alcohol she never used to touch, and that's when the ad for the Victory Tour comes on television.

It should have taken place months ago- around the time _he _left- a celebration, a bright spot in the middle of the gray-bleak chill of winter- but they've been delaying it week after week after week. They say it's for the health of the Victor_- whatwashername_- the skinny, fragile girl who managed to stay afloat long enough for the cannons to finish tolling. They say she hasn't pieced herself together enough yet to return to the Capitol- (they say she's _mad_)-

But everyone knows the real reason for the delay. Finnick Odair will be in the Capitol on Valentine's Day.

Finnick.

Odair.

In.

The.

Capitol.

On.

_Valentine's Day._

It's not a coincidence.

It's _destiny_.

It's _love_.

_(Say a hundred hearts.)_

And her heart rolls its eyes at first, when the announcement comes on television. But then she thinks about how she would've liked to shake his hand that first day- and how maybe if she would've been the escort's daughter he might be kissing her instead of all those spoiled rich girls- she used to _dream_ of that when she was young-

The announcer mentions that there will certainly be a lot of competition for his time that night, and to her plugged-underwater-drowning ears it almost sounds like a challenge.

And the silly fantasy becomes a solid goal when Angelica remembers that _he'll_ be there, at the parties and the ceremonies, and he would have no choice but to see her recovery. Her status. Her victory.

The idea (_obsession_) is planted.

* * *

The twilight is foggy and warmer than usual, and as Angelica steps out of her car she can't help looking forward to this, walking out of the mist and back into sunlight, into living, into _winning _again.

Finnick Odair is onstage when she slips into the back of the nightclub, slouching casually in his chair and laughing at one of the emcee's pointless jokes. He throws out a couple of 'thank-you's to sponsors, but it isn't a formal speech. Those were completed this morning. The Victor girl is nowhere to be found, if anyone is even looking for her. After the long days and nights of watching the official speeches in the Districts- counting down, Twelve, Eleven, Ten, Nine, Eight- _BLAST OFF- _into the Capitol, they've seen enough of their Victor. They've seen her shake and cry and throw up on her platform and now it's time for Finnick to erase the wretchedness of it all from their minds.

And so he read a poem he wrote, about his favorite subject. Love.

His eyes are green- a luminous green she didn't think was found in nature- greener than emeralds- and when they sweep across the room and catch hers, her heart gives several quickened jolts. Sure, so does every sighing, dreaming heart in the room, but she's not like them. She's not shallow like the others. In the two days since she saw the Victory Tour ad, she's fallen in _love_, and isn't it beautiful that he could make her believe in love again?

(And to believe in herself, that she could go through with this.)

He finishes the poem, golden spotlights highlighting his cheekbones, with some crooning little rhyme that he purrs instead of speaks. He folds the poem up, and that's when she notices that his right hand is bandaged, across his palm down to his wrist. Something twinges in the back of her mind, but she ignores it. She's not shallow and the imperfection doesn't bother her.

Then his eyes sweep the room and land on a young, blond woman in the back, and he calls her to the front. "Melissa, come up here, baby."

There is a deeply jealous applause, and Finnick thanks the girl for her thousand-point contribution to next year's Games. _Some lucky tribute-_

Angelica cuts the deluge of gratitude short when she stands up at her table, heartbeat roaring in her ears. "Three thousand points!" she calls out, and the attendees all fall silent. She repeats herself, more forcefully, and in the split second before hell breaks loose, the blonde makes eye contact and curls her lip.

Then suddenly, _chaos, _shouting, hollering, climbing over tables. Women are shouting out point values in a frantic bid, and waving wallets high over their heads. Angelica pushes her way to the front- as usual- and stands with her arms crossed, watching silently.

The emcee panics and calls for security. Finnick smirks and laughs. "Security? This is what we call job security!" he leans over and calls into the emcee's microphone.

The blonde launches herself off the stage and tackles Angelica, fingernails flying.

Finnick quickly pulls her back and says that's _enough_, still smirking hotly, but his darting eyes ripple with amusement just deep enough to cover the concern.

(Good thing no one's looking deeper.)

* * *

Twenty minutes and a bit of tear gas later, the crowd has disbursed, and the blonde has been led away with her hands wrenched behind her back. Angelica ignores the security officers and mounts the stage, makes a beeline for Finnick.

_It's good to meet you, Mr. Odair. _And she sticks out her hand and shakes his- minding the bandage- and a portion of her life is fulfilled.

"You started this?" he asks with raised eyebrows.

She nods, and he laughs, pulls her in close and kisses her. He likes feisty girls.

_Victory._

* * *

It's Valentine's Day, and Angelica is on the news, as the rioter who is going to dinner and a movie with Finnick Odair.

Dinner, and a movie, and _more, _the channels make it clear, although the cameras can only follow them so far.

She spent seven hours this morning getting dressed and buffed and polished and made up to perfection, and called all her friends to tell them the big news, but no one would answer. They always _were_ jealous of her success.

Finnick raps on her apartment door at seven- _right on time, _in a smoldering suit and tie_- _and takes her hand, as if he's oblivious to the dozens of news cameras trailing them down the hallway. She's not, and she blushes and adjusts her bodice and makes sure they get a shot of her kissing him before they enter the theater.

Kissing him turns out to be a lot more interesting than the film, and afterwards she couldn't have told you what it was about.

It's all so perfect, so wonderfully and beautifully _perfect_, a romantic dream that was _only_ ever a dream with him.

The only thing that's nagging at her is his _hand._

She couldn't explain why it bothered her. It's not like she's one of _those_ girls, shallow enough to imagine he's perfect- no matter how many of her friends she's heard gush about his _flawlessness_- but on television, he always seemed larger, taller, grander than life, an impenetrable fortress, and she doesn't like to think that strength can be compromised.

"What happened?" she finally asks as they sit down to dinner, and he takes her coat, like the gentleman he isn't.

"My dear," Finnick begins slowly, sea-green eyes catching and holding hers in that enthralling way of his. "Every rose has its thorn." The bouquet of blood-red roses Finnick produces tickles her noses with its sweet scent, but she takes care to avoid the sharp thorns as she grasps them. "But you're worth it," he assures her, exhaling the words into her ear.

She is moved. Weaknesses wrought by love, those are forgivable, right?

(It was Haymitch Abnernathy who dug the glass shards out of Finnick's palm, because the doctor would have wanted to know why he shattered his television screen.)

(Not everyone is excited for the program tonight.)

She forgets and squeezes his hand several times during the movie. He's trained his face not to react, but she still sees the tense little jolt that shoots through his shoulders.

"I'm so sorry," she gushes profusely to his pain, but it's mostly the hidden anger, not embarrassment, that causes her face to redden.

(The truth is, she doesn't want to remember she's hurting him.)

* * *

They are lying on the window-seat on the hundredth floor of the hotel, staring down at the city lights below, and taking turns feeding each other chocolates from the gigantic heart-shaped box. She's giggly from champagne and sometimes misses his mouth.

"Aww, don't you hate that," she sighs, glancing down at all the empty squares where the candy had been. "Only one left, and it's always the disgusting coconut."

Finnick flings the box over his shoulder and says something like _only the best for you._

"I know how to get what I want," she whispers, kissing him again.

"I've noticed that." Drunk girls don't pick up on sarcasm, so he can be a bit more loose-lipped now. "What would make a nice girl like you start so much trouble, anyway?"

"I like winning," she says wryly, tracing a finger on his jaw. "And nice guys finish last."

He almost snorts. Doesn't she know this is why he's a Victor?

* * *

Afterwards, she's in too much of a daze to notice that her bouquet only has eleven roses.

* * *

There is a little girl lying in bed in the District Four apartment, fighting through her own mist of nightmares.

It's nearly three in the morning, but she's still awake because she has no idea if her district partner could sing or not. She never heard. She never asked. She should have asked.

She doesn't know and she won't ever know, because he doesn't have a head to sing with now, and when they cut his neck it must have severed his vocal chords.

(She's still awake because she knows where Finnick is, and she's trying with all her might to create a world in her head where he's anywhere else.)

Annie hears him come in and the bathroom door clatters open and shut and rattles the silence. The shower turns on down the hall, but the running water doesn't quite muffle the sounds of retching. Annie wraps her arms around her middle and rocks herself back and forth and wouldn't it be much nicer if he was singing in the shower instead of throwing up? That would be better.

She doesn't know if Finnick can sing.

(Or Otto.)

(Or Willow.)

(Or Adrian.)

The fear of never finding out suddenly wallops her until her vision is black around the edges.

There's some banging around and stifled noises in the kitchen, the kind only made by someone trying to be quiet but failing, because they're too exhausted to see straight. For the briefest of moments, Annie considers letting him slip unannounced back to bed, but it's _Valentine's Day, _and her mind is going to eat itself alive with worry. She slides down the hall in stocking feet and peers around the corner.

He's just standing there at the sink in his pajamas, hair dripping wet- he's been so careful to wash away the Capitol perfume- and despite her efforts to be quiet, the six feet of kitchen tile between them is suddenly too far and too dark and too lonely. Annie takes a step forward and whispers his name.

He turns, and she stops where she is, because she's seen enough dead eyes for one lifetime, but never on a living person and it scares her to the bone.

She doesn't ask what's wrong. He doesn't ask why she's awake.

"I'm okay," Finnick murmurs, several times in a row. She doesn't argue. It's really more of an effort to convince himself than to lie to her. "I'll be alright. I'm just getting a drink of water." And then he leans there against the sink with no intention of moving.

Annie hurries to get him water but her hands shake, and she drops the glass and it shatters. It's a shame because they just finished cleaning up the broken glass from the television.

(She would very much love to take care of him right now, if her own body would just quit trembling long enough.)

Finnick retches into the sink again and then slams his hands on the countertop in frustration. Annie was _supposed_ to sleep through this part, and she was never supposed to see any more dead eyes.

"It's okay," Annie whispers behind him, a bit startled. "Go ahead. Get rid of all that… Capitol…" She means to add 'food', but she trails off, suddenly distracted because he's dry heaving and why won't life quit demanding things when he's empty?

"I can't!" he snaps, much more harshly than he intends. "I can't get rid of it!"

She squeezes the bridge of her nose to keep the tears from coming but they come anyway. Annie hopes he won't see that he's made her cry, but he does, and he slides down to the floor, murmuring so many apologies.

She slides down beside him and they sit.

Annie sees ghosts in the shadowy room and heads and knives and screaming echoes off the walls. He covers his eyes and tries not to see anything at all.

"Finn, can you sing?" she asks in a whisper, when the silence is threatening to suffocate her.

"Can I _sing?_" he repeats vacantly, finally turning to look at her. If he could sing, wouldn't he have been doing a whole lot of serenading tonight? "No, Annie, I can't sing." The only talent he has is that poetry the President pays to have written in his name. Annie nods and fights to keep afloat.

She finally unwraps her arms from around her middle and takes his hand, unwraps his bandage carefully. He watches her face in concern. It's not so bad an injury, but she starts to tremble until she reminds herself that it's living things that bleed, not dead things, and they bleed so that they can heal themselves.

She gets up and leaves him alone with the silence for a moment before returning with a first-aid kit. She rinses out the cut, and as Finnick winces he almost laughs aloud at the thought of a roomful of girls, all waving wallets around, bidding on a chance to clean his hand.

The scene in the nightclub is suddenly at the tip of his tongue, and he almost tells her about it but then he can't.

"I had a nightmare," she begins quietly, jerking his mind back to the present. She won't take her eyes off his hand.

"What was it?"

"You couldn't sing," Annie whispers. She glances up and her fingers brush against his neck and he understands.

He decides to sing for her, but then all he can remember are Capitol songs and love songs at all taste much too sour and fake. So he murmurs a few lines of a sailing song he used to know- _mend the tattered sails, and build up the broken mast- the ship will go and sail again when the storm has rolled on past-_

And then he stops because the storm is just taking an awfully long time to pass over.

She ties off the fresh bandage and presses a kiss to it, gently, gently, and because he doesn't stop her she kisses his wrist, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. He closes his eyes and murmurs against her lips, "_I'm sorry_."

Because it may be a very long time before he can kiss her again.

"You have never hurt me," she whispers, eyes intense, forehead pressed to his. "And I will never hurt you."

And that is that.

It's better than the silence before, because there isn't so much to be afraid of now that they aren't afraid to hold each other.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he says, after a time, with a lame smile, and pulls out the rose with the broken stem, and the nearly-empty chocolate box. She opens it and fingers the last square of candy.

"It's coconut," Finnick says, and he almost chokes because it's his biggest apology yet. It seems that he will only ever have leftovers for her.

"Coconut is my favorite," Annie tells him.

They cry.

* * *

No matter how often she denies it, he knows he doesn't deserve her. But the truth is, life isn't always fair.

Sometimes life is merciful.

* * *

Angelica watches the headlights flit across her darkened bedroom walls and wonders why she can't shake the delusion (_reality_) that she's come in second place.

Again.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed. This is completely different from the style of my other stories and I'm very insecure of it. I'll reread it tomorrow and I apologize if I immediately rewrite/delete.**

**Happy Valentine's Day!**


End file.
